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The  Moriartys 

f)f  Yale 


if#-',^gK;«'PWMii: 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
Kate  Grordon  Moore 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 


THl-:   WIDOW 


The  Moriartys  of  Yale 


By 
NORRIS  G.  OSBORN,    ^80 


New  Haven 

Yale  Publishing  Association 

1912 


MIN, 
P 


Reprinted    from   the 
Yale  Alumni  Weekly 


Reprinted  September,  1912    1000  copies 


872483 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 


The  Moriartys  of  Yale 

By  NORRIS  G.  OSBORN,  '80 

THE  Moriartys  were  discovered 
by  accident.  They  were  mov- 
ing at  the  time  in  the  rut  to  which  they 
had  grown  accustomed,  drawing  pots 
of  ale  in  a  mechanical  sort  of  way, 
and  setting  them  out  on  the  cheap 
boards  which  constituted  the  bar,  in 
exchange  for  the  nickels  and  dimes  of 
their  regular  patrons.  Their  tap- 
room was  on  Wooster  Street,  New 
Haven,  in  a  dingy  old  building, 
smutted  with  the  dirt  stains  of  many 
years.  The  rapidly  running  stream 
[9] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

of  life  had  thrown  them  up  on  its 
banks,  and  there  they  were  and  there 
they  seemed  fated  to  remain,  objects 
of  appreciation  to  the  young  me- 
chanics of  the  neighborhood,  who  yet 
knew  enough  to  know  that  "Frank's'* 
offered  a  hospitahty  and  possessed  a 
dignity  never  acquired  by  any  one  of 
the  various  saloons  in  the  district. 

It  was  in  the  early  Sixties  that 
Frank  Moriarty  and  his  worthy  wife 
were  discovered  by  students  of  Yale. 
They  had  received  no  premonition  of 
the  good  fortune  which  awaited  them. 
They  had  lazily  observed  groups  of 
Yale  students,  some  with  rosy- 
cheeked  girls  by  their  sides,  and 
others  without,  wander  past  their 
[10] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

door,  but  it  never  occurred  to  them  to 
ask  each  other,  or  their  patrons, 
whither  the  crowd  was  going.  There 
was  nothing  in  common  between 
them.  They  had  never  met,  and  the 
coins  which  dropped  into  the  Mori- 
arty  till  were  the  rewards  of  sweating 
brows  and  aching  muscles,  not  the 
reckless  emptyings  of  pockets  replen- 
ished by  indulgent  parents  educating 
their  more  fortunate  sons.  It  was 
nothing  to  them  that  the  smartly 
dressed  and  enthusiastic  young  per- 
sons were  on  their  way  to  attend  the 
semi-annual  college  regatta  in  the 
lower  harbor  of  New  Haven.  It  was 
not  their  business,  nor  concern,  and 
they  turned  away   from  the  passing 

[11] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

crowd  and  attended  diligently  to  their 
affairs,  like  the  honest,  worthy  couple 
they  were. 

It  was  destined  that  Yale  College 
and  the  Moriartys  should  not  remain 
strangers.  There  was  an  affinity 
working  to  bring  them  together,  and 
it  was,  therefore,  quite  logical  that  at 
the  close  of  a  hotly  contested  set  of 
races  in  the  harbor,  which  had  called 
forth  the  cheers  and  the  hoarse  con- 
gratulations of  the  demonstrative  stu- 
dents, a  small  group — members  of 
the  Class  of  1863 — should  have 
entered  this  Wooster  Street  ale- 
house for  the  required  stimulant  to 
restore  their  exhausted  energies.  It 
was  in  the  spirit  of  Caesar  calling 
[12] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

upon  Titinius  for  "some  drink"  that 
they  came,  and  It  was  old  Frank  him- 
self, hale  and  bluff  old  Frank,  who 
met  them,  with  a  hospitality  born  of 
an  Inherent  recognition  of  the  pres- 
ence of  "quality,"  and  led  them  Into 
the  family  sitting-room,  where  Mrs. 
Frank  received  them  with  the  old- 
fashioned  courtesy  which  forever 
afterwards  possessed  Its  charm  for 
and  exercised  Its  power  over  the  stu- 
dents of  Yale.  This  was  the  dis- 
covery of  the  Morlartys  by  Yalen- 
slans,  as  wonderful  In  Its  way  as  the 
discovery  of  America  by  Columbus, 
a  discovery  which  almost  Immediately 
opened  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
sons  of  old  EH  a  new  and  rare  dis- 
[13] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

pensation  in  their  social  life.  Had 
the  Columhi  of  the  Class  of  1863 
omitted  this  most  important  of  all 
their  recognized  achievements,  Frank 
and  "The  Widow"  would  have  died 
on  Wooster  Street,  unknown  to  the 
score  of  classes,  more  or  less,  which 
formed  their  acquaintance  in  the 
years  that  followed,  and  whose  poets 
celebrated  their  virtues  in  dignified 
hexameter  verse,  and  in  the  less 
stately  jingle  of  the  C  our  ant  and 
Record,  and  once  in  the  dignified  col- 
umns of  the  Yale  Lit. 

But  these  things  happened,  just  as 

they  do  in  story  books,  or  as  Verdant 

Green  might  have  arranged  them  out 

of  the  abundance  of  his  experience. 

[14] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

What  wonder,  then,  that  Frank 
moved  on  to  Court  Street,  where  he 
reigned  "forever  after,"  supreme  in 
the  affection  of  Yale  students,  who 
gathered  nightly  about  the  fireplace 
in  the  tap-room  of  "The  Quiet 
House,"  to  mingle  their  voices  in 
rollicking  song,  or  to  indulge  in  those 
characteristic  engagements  in  which 
the  repartee  was  always  clean,  if  not 
witty!  And  what  wonder  that  "The 
Widow,"  upon  the  death  of  Frank,  in 
the  later  Seventies,  should  have  trans- 
ferred her  good  will  and  her  business 
to  the  more  aristocratic  neighborhood 
of  Temple  Street  (opposite  an  Epis- 
copal parish  building) ,  where  she 
installed  herself  as  the  Mistress  of 
[15] 


THE  M  OKI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

"Temple  Bar" !  These  were  among 
the  chronological  results  of  the  dis- 
covery made  by  the  thirsty  members 
of  the  Class  of  1863;  this  is  the  con- 
densed history  of  the  Moriartys, 
whose  colors  flapped  proudly  and 
profitably  in  the  breezes  until  the 
relentless  and  undiscriminating  angel 
of  death  removed  them  from  the 
happy  scenes  of  their  labors. 

What  a  revelation  was  "The  Quiet 
House"  to  the  student  world! 
Appropriately  named  and  appropri- 
ately located,  set  back  the  conven- 
tional fifty  feet  from  the  pavement, 
its  swinging  door  of  brown  leather, 
uniformly  darkened  with  the  stains 
and  dirt  of  years,  its  inner  door  of 
[16] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

Imitation  English  oak — how  pleasant 
the  atmosphere  of  sombre  color,  the 
characteristic  old  prints,  the  odor  of 
real  British  ale,  and  the  very  breath 
and  breathings  of  good  fellowship 
that  greeted  one  upon  one's  entrance ! 
There  were  none  of  the  sad  trappings 
and  miserable  pomp  of  the  saloon. 
There  was  the  conventional  quiet  and 
order  and  decency  of  the  English  grill 
room.  About  the  roughhewn  old 
tables  where  grouped  young  and 
handsome  boys,  some  In  earnest,  some 
in  flippant  conversation,  with  here  one 
poring  patiently  over  the  latest  copy 
of  Punch,  there  one,  evidently  a 
Sophomore,  making  his  first  visit,  and 
wonderingly  turning  the  pages  of  an 
[17] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

obsolete  London  directory.  Occa- 
sionally a  peal  of  rippling  laughter 
would  ring  through  the  room  and 
startle  the  quieter  visitors,  to  die 
away  later  in  the  evening  in  the  semi- 
martial  melody  of  Delta  Beta  Xi — a 
signal  to  all  that  conversation  must 
give  way  to  the  government  of  song. 
And  the  bar!  How  modest,  un- 
assuming and  unobstrusive  it  was, 
short,  stumpy  and  fat,  with  its  row  of 
ivory  draught  handles,  saucy  wit- 
nesses of  their  own  abundant  supply, 
while  back  against  the  wall,  on  a 
shelf  of  sympathetic  proportions, 
stood  the  half-pint,  pint  and  quart 
pewter  mugs  with  glass  bottoms, 
timidly  yet  resolutely  concealing  the 
[18] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

rare  old  liquor  In  rarer  bottles  of  odd 
shapes.  In  the  center  of  them  stood 
Insolently,  with  its  neck  an  Inch  taller 
than  its  less  worthy  companions,  the 
Imitation  cut  glass  decanter  which 
held  Frank's  favorite  tipple,  Tom 
Gin;  next  it,  its  more  youthful  asso- 
ciate, the  St.  Croix  Rum  jug,  from  the 
contents  of  which,  upon  a  cold  night 
in  winter,  when  the  snow  swirled  past 
the  exposed  window  glass,  and  the  fire 
In  the  grate  blushed  red  from  a  sense 
of  its  naked  modesty,  Frank,  with  his 
own  hands,  and  in  deference  to  the 
wishes  of  his  Senior  friends,  would 
brew  a  delicious  hot  spiced  glass. 

It  was  a  rare  old  place,  "The  Quiet 
House."      Ben   Jonson   would   have 
[19] 


THE  M  OKI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

found  It  congenial,  Dickens  would 
have  gone  to  it  from  his  desk  in  a 
newspaper  office,  Thackeray  would 
have  flicked  the  dust  from  his  shining 
boots  upon  entering  it,  and  even 
Shakespeare  and  Bacon,  and  the  other 
worthies  of  the  reign  of  good  Queen 
Bess,  would  have  flocked  to  its  tables 
and  greedily  drunk  its  ale  and  de- 
voured its  rarebits  and  its  golden 
bucks  and  its  grilled  sardines,  and 
with  that  satisfaction  which  seems  to 
have  been  more  or  less  peculiarly 
theirs,  would  have  trudged  off  to  their 
quarters,  as  the  gray  dawn  was  break- 
ing, arm  in  arm,  with  uneven  steps, 
perhaps,  but  with  lighter  hearts  and 
unimpaired  digestion. 
[20] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

And  there  was  Frank  himself,  six 
feet  In  his  stockings,  tipping  the  scales 
at  two  hundred  and  thirty,  broad  of 
beam,  with  an  accent  which  was  a 
curious  and  sometimes  a  startling  con- 
solidation of  Irish  from  the  northern 
tier  and  of  Scotch  from  the  grayest 
and  craggiest  of  crests,  a  hand  with 
the  grasp  of  steel,  and  a  tweed  suit 
suggesting  warmth  in  the  cold  of 
winter  and  coolness  In  the  heat  of 
summer.  Found  in  his  tap-room, 
when  In  a  reminiscent  mood,  and  sur- 
rounded by  the  externals  of  a  British 
rearing,  one  had  to  accept  him  as  a 
true  subject  by  birth  of  the  Queen. 
And  yet  what  mattered  It  whence  he 
came?  He  was  there,  at  "The  Quiet 
[21] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

House,"  big  and  muscular,  as  if  the 
prize  ring  might  have  witnessed  his 
skill,  full  of  consideration  for  his 
young  guests,  careful  to  restrain  them 
if  the  pace  became  hot,  fond  of  a 
good  anecdote  or  story,  and  not 
averse  to  the  exaggeration  which 
passes  for  local  color,  not  a  bit  afraid 
of  an  intolerant  Senior,  and  always 
parental  toward  the  Sophomore.  He 
had,  as  all  men  have,  his  favorites. 
He  did  not  sit  at  every  table,  though 
he  visited  each  to  assure  himself  of  the 
comfort  and  happiness  of  his  guests, 
and  if  occasionally  he  was  seen  to  take 
a  vacant  seat  at  a  round  table,  refilling 
with  his  own  hands  the  emptied 
tankards,  and  with  his  more  intimate 
[22] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

knowledge  of  their  actual  worth 
and  fragrance  selecting  the  cigars  to 
be  smoked  from  the  multitude  of 
boxes  brought  on  by  the  attendant, 
the  proof  was  convincing  and  conclu- 
sive that  he  was  with  his  especial 
admirers  and  the  especially  admired. 
Upon  such  occasions  Frank  was  a 
never-ending  source  of  wonder  to  the 
young  eyes  which  beheld  him  and  the 
untrained  ears  which  hearkened  to  the 
tales  he  wove  from  his  Irish  wit  and 
his  Scotch  imagination.  He  was  to 
these  youngsters  a  page  torn  from  a 
history  of  Fleet  Street,  London,  and, 
during  an  early  acquaintance,  accepted 
as  a  hero  from  the  downs  of  Epsom. 
Frank  was  cordial,  polite  after  the 
[23] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

manner  of  the  successful  tapster,  con- 
stant in  his  attention,  as  shrewd  a 
broth  of  a  lad  as  ever  peddled  his 
wares  at  Donnybrook  Fair. 

And  there  was  Mrs.  Frank,  who 
became  better  known,  when  she  be- 
came the  Mistress  of  "Temple  Bar," 
as  The  Widow.  In  the  earlier  days 
at  "The  Quiet  House"  she  sat  in  the 
family  sitting-room,  back  of  the  tap- 
room, and  rocked  in  the  stiff  old  rock- 
ing chair,  more  suggestive  of  Puritan 
New  England  than  of  Primitive  Old 
England.  Shorter  of  stature  than 
Frank,  well-to-do  in  avoirdupois,  with 
a  becoming  cap  on  her  Saxon  head, 
and  her  knitting  needles  in  her  hand, 
she  was  as  much  a  feature  of  the 
[24] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

quaint  furnishings  as  the  odd  glass 
signs  which  hung  on  the  wall,  pro- 
claiming in  burning  letters  of  gold  the 
limited  cuisine  of  the  resort:  ''Welsh 
Rarebit/'  "Golden  Buck/'  "Eggs 
ON  Toast/'  "Grilled  Sardines." 

With  the  rush  of  evening  business 
and  the  demand  for  those  refresh- 
ments, Mrs.  Frank  laid  aside  her 
knitting,  and  deserted  her  rocker 
for  the  old-fashioned  range,  the 
melted  cheese,  the  Milford  eggs  and 
the  fresh  toasted  bread.  Who  ever 
cooked  a  rarebit,  or  a  buck,  equal  to 
this  good  old  lady?  The  cheese 
ebbed  and  flowed  like  a  sluggish  but 
clear  river  over  its  banks  of  steaming 
toast — sans  string,  sans  indigestion, 
[25] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

sans  everything  but  delight  and 
refreshment  to  the  inner  man.  The 
Moriarty  cheese  was  the  product  of 
an  honest  dairy,  of  just  the  right 
flavor,  sharp  but  not  pungent,  and  the 
eggs  were  from  the  pretty  village  of 
Milford,  where  appreciative  hens  laid 
them — hens  that  cackled  their  notes 
of  stirring  welcome  whenever  the  old 
black  Moriarty  nag,  pulling  the 
Moriarty  phaeton  and  its  distin- 
guished passengers,  hove  in  sight  for 
their  periodical  supply.  Mrs.  Frank 
made  rarebits  and  bucks  In  the  good 
old  days — the  halcyon  days,  Frank 
used  to  call  them,  with  a  broad  accent 
on  the  "a" — when  it  would  have  been 
justly  considered  a  sacrilege  to  include 
[26] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

Worcestershire  sauce  and  mustard 
among  the  Ingredients.  They  were 
as  delicate  to  the  taste  as  the  historic 
pies  of  our  grandmothers. 

And  what  curious  attendants! 
Surely  such  waiters  were  never  seen 
before.  There  was  old  Cooke, 
whose  shoes  burst  with  the  abundance 
of  his  pedal  ailments,  whose  hand 
shook  with  the  fright  of  approaching 
age,  and  whose  smile,  always  gener- 
ous If  not  spontaneous,  disclosed  that 
grim  cavern  of  a  mouth,  filled  with 
its  flat  and  broad  teeth,  reflecting 
their  copper  light,  like  so  many 
uneven  headstones  In  a  neglected 
cemetery.  Where  "Cooke"  came 
from,  and  how  It  happened  that 
[27] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

when  he  disappeared  another  of 
similar  design  and  mold  took  his 
place,  and  moved  about  as  if  he  was 
born  to  his  surroundings,  neither 
Frank  nor  Mrs.  Frank  could  be  made 
to  explain.  They  answered  all  such 
inquiries  with  a  forbearing  smile, 
which  intimated  that  it  was  not  worth 
while  talking  about, — like  the  famous 
old  lady  who  figured  in  our  nursery 
rhymes,  they  had  a  shoe  full  of  them. 
They  were  as  rare  as  the  Moriartys 
themselves  or  the  family  chaise. 

There  was  one  evening  in  the  year 
when  "The  Quiet  House"  gave  up 
its  quiet  and  became  pandemonium. 
Frank  was  powerless  to  restrain  the 
emotions  of  his  reckless  and  doubly 
[28] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

stimulated  guests,  and  with  a  wisdom 
which  would  have  been  precocious  in 
a  younger  man  reluctantly  surren- 
dered to  the  enemy,  and  found  con- 
solation in  the  thought  that  "That 
sort  o'  thing  occurs  but  wance  a  year." 
It  was  the  evening  of  the  afternoon 
when  the  Senior  elections  were  given 
out  on  the  Campus.  It  was  the  storm 
of  Democracy  breaking  loose  for  the 
last  time,  prior  to  the  formal  accept- 
ance of  the  restraints  of  social  aris- 
tocracy. Those  were  Walpurgis 
nights,  the  elect  and  the  disappointed 
joining  in  a  common  celebration,  and 
quite  regardless  of  conflicting  sensa- 
tions. If  the  "Bones"  men  retained 
for  themselves  and  their  friends  the 
[29] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

lower  floor,  leaving  the  "Keys"  men 
to  accommodate  themselves  to  the 
upper,  the  distinction  was  soon  lost 
sight  of,  and  "Bones"  and  "Keys" 
men  and  neutrals  mingled  together  in 
celebration  of  the  Moriartys,  who 
soon  became  the  common  cause  of  the 
characteristic  orgy.  It  was  upon  one 
of  these  occasions  that  a  distinguished 
son  of  old  Eli — now  dead,  peace  to 
his  sacred  ashes — mounted  the  table 
in  the  corner  of  the  room  and  com- 
batted  with  a  classmate,  similarly 
mounted  in  an  opposite  corner,  the 
proposition  that  hot  spiced  rum  was 
better  with  four  than  more  spices. 
"I've  twied  hot  spithed  wum,"  he 
lisped,  as  he  swayed  to  the  rhythm  of 
[30] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

his  emotion,  "In  every  form  (cheers), 
and  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about. 
(Bully  for  you,  old  man!)  I  have 
twied  one  spith,  and  two  splthes,  three 
spithes  (Glorious!  Hurrah!),  four 
spithes,  five  spithes  (Hear!  Hear!) 
and  thix  spithes,  and  upon  my  word 
as  a  sthudent  of  Yale  I  declare  that  a 
hot  spithed  wum  without  thix  spithes 
is  but  a  vulgar  thubterfuge."  Here 
followed  prolonged  cheering,  and  the 
abrupt  departure  of  his  defeated 
antagonist,  who  could  but  point  to  a 
record  of  "four  spithes."  It  was  a 
night  of  student  frolicking,  ending 
with  all  present  forming  in  the  stately 
double  line,  and  actually  performing 
in  silence,  broken  only  by  the  occa- 
[31] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

sional  hiccough  of  a  slightly  tipsy 
celebrant,  the  famous  "Keys"  walk, 
with  a  newly  elected  "Bones"  man 
in  the  lead.  Silently  and  sedately 
they  trudged  to  the  steps  of  the  old 
College  Chapel  in  the  center  of  the 
Campus,  and  sang  with  deliciously 
concealed  merriment,  and  not  uncom- 
monly in  witty  discord,  the  well-known 
music  and  words  of  "Gaily  the  Trou- 
badour." This  closed  the  annual 
celebration,  as  regular  in  its  recur- 
rence as  the  burial  of  Euclid,  never 
more  to  be  indulged  in  by  the  same 
actors.  The  next  year  brought  with 
it  new  heroes,  new  victims,  but  the 
same  old  plot  and  story. 

It  would  not  be  a  difficult  under- 
[32] 


Ipk^  i|^      '/■■■ 


FRANK 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

taking  to  recall  a  hundred  such  inci- 
dents, each  characteristic  of  its  odd 
conditions.  It  matters  not  what  form 
such  innocent  student  devilment  took 
in  the  interesting  days  of  the  reign  of 
Frank  Moriarty  at  "The  Quiet 
House."  The  important  fact  is 
that  it  was  mischievousness,  and  not 
viciousness,  which  sought  an  expres- 
sion. The  atmosphere  of  the  resort, 
the  quiet,  good-natured  dignity  of  the 
proprietor,  and  the  uncommonness  of 
sights  and  incidents  which  belong  to 
the  bar-room  or  saloon,  all  worked  to 
produce  upon  the  mind  a  lasting  im- 
pression of  the  obligated  cleanliness 
of  Yale  life  and  the  spirit  of  Democ- 
racy which  dominates  it. 
[33] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

On  the  whole,  "The  Quiet  House" 
was  well  named.  To  the  student 
mind  a  song  Is  neither  noise  nor 
hilarity.  It  Is  what  the  whistle  Is  to 
the  youngster,  an  escape  from  spon- 
taneous combustion.  So,  the  famous 
old  student  resort  was  eminently  re- 
spectable— digs  and  deacons  could  be 
seen  there  without  compromising 
their  reputations  for  high  stand  and 
piety — gray-haired  grads  were  not 
afraid  to  visit  it  with  their  under- 
graduate offspring — and  the  Faculty 
visited  It  In  the  vacation  season — the 
conversation  and  repartee  were  clean, 
and  roysterers  were  rare  and  never 
welcome  visitors.  If  Frank  knew  how 
to  concede  a  special  license  upon  a 
[34] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

special  occasion,  he  also  knew  when 
to  abridge  it,  for  though  crudely  edu- 
cated at  the  school  of  human  experi- 
ence, there  was  In  him  a  genuine  love 
of  youth  and  a  never-falling  concern 
In  Its  Irresponsibilities.  When  the 
old  fellow  had  drawn  his  last  pot  of 
ale,  and  mixed  his  last  hot  spiced  rum, 
and  recommended  his  last  cigar,  and 
put  an  end  to  It  all  by  a  turn  of  his 
toes  up  to  the  yellow  and  white  daisies 
which  abound  In  such  picturesque 
luxuriance  In  and  about  New  Haven, 
there  were  young  men  at  Yale,  and 
older  men  in  the  world  of  affairs  too, 
who  were  not  ashamed  to  own  up  to 
a  sharp  pang  of  regret  at  the  loss  of 
an  old  'un,  who  had  found  his  way 
[35] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

to  their  hearts  through  their  palates 
and  stomachs. 

The  Widow  was  more  particularly 
identified  with  the  earlier  days  of 
"Temple  Bar"  on  Temple  Street. 
Though  she  took  with  her  there  some 
of  the  quainter  furniture  that  had 
adorned  the  scenes  of  Frank's  tri- 
umph she  could  not  take  with  her 
the  characteristic  soberness,  the  oddly 
designed  and  figured  window  screens, 
and  the  general  coziness  of  the  older 
place.  "Temple  Bar"  appeared  new, 
too  spick  and  span.  There  were  the 
familiar  prints  on  the  new  walls  cov- 
ered with  paper  of  an  unfamiliar 
brightness,  red  coated  riders  who 
were  still  jumping  ditches  on  slim  bay 
[36] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

horses  followed  by  dogs,  each  one  of 
them  bearing  the  same  monotonous 
marks;  and  there  were  flaring  signs 
still  proclaiming  the  not  extended 
cuisine  of  the  new  resort;  but  they 
were  new  signs,  the  tables  were  fresh 
from  the  cabinetmakers,  there  was 
more  wall  space  and  hence  new  and 
painfully  modern  pictures  to  relieve 
it,  the  leathern  cuspidors  looked  un- 
familiar, there  was  not  a  speck  of 
sawdust  on  the  bare  floor,  there  was 
an  additional  room,  and  the  bar, — 
that  shrinking,  modest  bar  of  "The 
Quiet  House," — was  shut  off  by  itself, 
exiled  to  a  corner  on  the  ground  floor, 
as  if  ashamed  of  its  refreshing  voca- 
tion. 

[37] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

It  was  a  sharp  transition  and  a 
hard  one  to  which  to  accommodate 
oneself,  though  there  was  the  grate 
fire  left,  and  the  blessed  round  table, 
and  the  good  old  woman,  with  her 
kindly  face  and  her  fearfully  flowing 
skirts.  It  was  the  widow's  cap  which 
adorned  her  head  now,  not  the  less 
beautiful  cap  of  service.  Surely  all 
could  not  be  lost  with  The  Widow 
at  the  helm!  Nor  was  all  lost. 
"Temple  Bar"  soon  asserted  itself 
and  found  its  place,  and  flourished 
like  a  green  bay  tree  under  the  ripen- 
ing and  refining  influence  of  its  pro- 
prietress. Her  welcome  was  as 
cordial  as  her  husband's  had  been, 
and  upon  rare  occasions,  when  the 
[38] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

tables  were  unoccupied,  the  old  lady 
would  drop  into  a  vacant  chair  by 
one's  side  to  "reminisce." 

It  was  an  eventful  evening  in  Feb- 
ruary when  the  door  of  Temple  Bar 
was  closed  to  the  public  and  The 
Widow  was  presented  by  a  group  of 
her  admirers  with  the  photograph  of 
the  original  Temple  Bar  in  London. 
The  fumes  of  the  Apple  Dumpling, 
which  she  had  cooked  in  true  British 
style  with  her  own  hands,  fill  the  air 
to  this  day  with  its  fragrance.  It  was 
an  historic  occasion,  with  its  incessant 
flow  of  wit  and  wisdom,  the  never- 
emptied  flask  of  wine,  the  melodious 
outbursts  of  song,  and  the  speech  of 
acceptance  from  The  Widow!  No 
[39] 


THE  M  OKI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

Queen  e'er  received  a  more  royal,  or 
a  more  respectful  greeting.  Each 
man  to  his  feet  in  a  jiffy,  as  glass  to 
glass,  amid  suppressed  cheers  and  ex- 
pectant smiles,  the  animated  party 
awaited  the  opening  remarks  of  the 
kind  and  much  moved  old  hostess. 
And  the  applause  which  greeted  the 
picture  when  it  had  been  hung  in  the 
place  of  honor  between  the  front  win- 
dows and  unveiled,  with  the  extrava- 
gant ceremony  which  would  have 
characterized  the  unveiling  of  a  rare 
masterpiece  upon  the  walls  of  a  great 
museum  of  art!  It  was  one  of  those 
occasions  which  the  brush  touches  in 
vain,  partly  because  of  its  incongruity 
and  partly  because  of  its  mock  solem- 
[40] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

nity.  There  the  print  hangs  in  imagi- 
nation to  this  day,  looking  down  upon 
another  generation  of  youngsters  to 
whom  "The  Widow"  is  a  myth. 
They  nudge  one  another  and  wonder 
whence  it  came.  Put  your  educated 
young  noses  to  the  frame  and  smell 
the  fumes  of  the  dumpling !  Put  your 
ears  to  the  glass  and  hear  the  echo  of 
voices,  some  of  which  are  as  silent  as 
the  night  they  so  often  disturbed  with 
their  laughter  and  song ! 

That  "A  Temple  Bar  Association" 
should  have  sprung  into  existence 
from  this  chapter  of  student  history 
was  as  logical  an  upheaval  of  youth- 
ful souls  with  but  a  single  thought,  as 
its  decay  and  ruin  were  inevitable 
[41] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

upon  the  discharge  of  the  last  of 
the  original  donors  of  the  picture 
from  the  halls  of  Yale  College,  ''an 
educated  man."  There  were  none 
then  remaining  who  were  eligible  to 
fill  the  vacant  chairs  about  the  family 
mahogany,  Friday  evening,  at  seven, 
when  The  Widow  herself,  her  steam- 
ing face  bathed  in  the  kindliest — yes, 
the  most  rollicking  of  smiles,  broiled 
the  thick  beefsteaks  and  fried  the 
thick  flat  potatoes,  and  served  them 
on  odd  pieces  of  blue  china  as  old  as 
the  hills,  the  first  inroads  upon  which 
had  been  carelessly  made  by  the  me- 
chanics of  Wooster  Street.  They 
were  Bohemian  feasts  with  the  host- 
ess in  her  royal  place  at  the  head  of 
[42] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

the  table,  surrounded  by  loyal  knights 
of  her  castle,  and  before  them  the 
selected  tankards  of  pewter  and  glass, 
each  bearing  the  characteristic  scratch 
of  its  owner's  finger  nail,  secretly 
made  at  an  opportune  moment  when 
the  ''cordon  bleu"  was  bending  over 
the  fire  in  the  kitchen.  It  must  have 
been  the  same  spirit  of  harmless  in- 
solence, working  within  the  breasts  of 
a  much  younger  generation,  which  led 
to  the  organization  of  "the  Velvet 
Cup."  Those  of  us  who  have 
quenched  our  thirst  from  the  vast  and 
barbarian  depths  of  the  silver  tank- 
ard have  done  so  with  the  wine  from 
without  and  a  toast  to  the  sweet 
memory  of  "The  Widow"  from 
[43] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

within  touching  the  lips  at  the  same 
moment. 

It  was  in  the  Seventies,  after  a 
rattling  and  a  victorious  game  of 
baseball  at  Hamilton  Park  with 
Yale's  old  and  honored  antagonist 
from  Cambridge,  that  "Temple  Bar" 
was  the  scene  of  an  occurrence  which 
Illustrated  the  influence  of  Mrs. 
Frank  over  her  young  charges,  and 
the  respect  they  had  for  her  as  a 
woman.  The  front  room  was  choked 
with  a  throng  of  light-hearted  stu- 
dents, who  were  ranged  about  the 
round  table,  upon  which  stood  in  a 
quart  mug  the  precious  cold  contents 
of  the  last  bottle  of  champagne — the 
pioneer  of  the  loving  cups  which  have 
[44] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

followed  in  such  abundance.  The 
picture  was  that  of  an  amphitheatre, 
the  circle  of  human  beings  rising  sym- 
metrically to  a  height  equal  to  that 
attained  by  celebrants  perched  upon 
the  backs  of  chairs.  The  crimson  of 
Harvard  harmonized  symmetrically 
with  the  blue  of  Yale,  and  nowhere 
were  visible  the  traces  of  the  fierce 
conflict  of  the  afternoon.  "Harvard, 
Fair  Harvard"  was  as  melodiously 
sung  as  "Here's  to  good  old  Yale" 
was  snappily  chanted. 

The  hands  of  the  clock  were 
rapidly  moving  towards  the  closing 
hour,  though  few  could  see  them 
through  the  clouds  and  rifts  of  smoke, 
and  fewer  still  cared  for  the  exasper- 
[45] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

ating  accuracy  of  their  record.  The 
merriest  and  wittiest  of  college  song- 
birds was  concluding  the  first  verse, 
with  appropriate  and  inimitable 
grimaces,  of  that  popular  melody, 
"Razors  Flying  in  the  Air,"  which 
had  just  done  splendid  service  at  a 
college  minstrel  performance.  The 
prematurely  gray  front  locks  of  the 
singer  hung  over  his  forehead  in 
graceful  curls,  his  dark  eyes  were 
ablaze  with  the  excitement  of  the 
moment,  and  his  olive  cheeks  and 
brilliant  white  teeth  formed  a  con- 
trast in  color  which  added  to  the 
interest  of  his  clever  powers  of  mimi- 
cry. Harvard  men  vied  with  Yale 
men  to  spur  him  on,  while  at  the  close 
[46] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

of  each  line  came  a  yell  and  a  shriek, 
cutting  the  air  with  the  screech  of  a 
rifle  ball,  which  located  beyond  the 
power  of  concealment  the  stimulating 
presence  of  his  irrepressible  and 
impulsive  roommate.  The  Widow 
stood  in  the  door  leading  to  the  tap- 
room restlessly  moving  her  eyes  from 
the  singer,  in  fear  lest  the  song  should 
not  be  completed  with  the  customary 
jig,  to  the  animated  face  of  the  per- 
sistent possessor  of  the  piercing  yell, 
and  hence  to  the  unfeeling  prosaic  old 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  Unappre- 
ciative  old  clock,  with  what  aggravat- 
ing clearness  you  rang  out  the  incon- 
venient hour  of  midnight,  just  as  the 
room  was  reverberating  with  the  com- 
[47] 


THE  MORIARTYS  OF  YALE 

mingled  echolngs  of  a  clear  baritone 
voice  and  an  interrupting  cheer,  and 
the  end  of  the  song  story  approach- 
ing! 

"Twelve  o'clock,  gentlemen," 
wearily  and  sadly  remarked  the  host- 
ess, as  she  moved  slowly  toward  the 
half-emptied  mug  of  wine,  through 
the  line  of  students  promptly  made 
for  her.  Taps  had  sounded  and  the 
base  of  supplies  had  been  cut  off. 
The  merrymakers  had  arisen  to  their 
feet,  and  every  head  was  uncovered. 
The  time  for  "Good  Night"  had 
come,  and  as  the  handsome  lads 
strode  off  toward  the  Campus,  singing 
one  of  the  popular  college  melodies 
of  the  day,  it  was  more  than  likely 
[48] 


THE  MORI  ARTY  S  OF  YALE 

that  as  the  good  old  lady  put  out  the 
lights  and  went  to  her  bedroom,  her 
ears  were  alert  to  catch  the  last  faint 
sounds  of  the  song  which  died  on  the 
summer  air,  and  her  hps  parted  in  a 
smile  which  told  its  own  eloquent 
story  of  the  innocence  of  the  even- 
ing's association  and  her  satisfaction 
in  it. 


[49] 


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